Spring Break
by Acciodoublestuffed
Summary: Synlet. “Capture the daughter. Real original." He laughed, “What’s more original than Canada?” She rolled her eyes, this was not how she had planned on spending her spring break.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Here's just a little something I've been working on lately. I'm trying a new take on Violet. More of a cocky attitude, a bit disenchanted-college-alternative-angsty. Let's see if I can pull it off, shall we?

Oh, this is about six years after the film, meaning Violet's around 21, Dash is almost 17, and Jack-Jack is 8 or 9-ish.

**Spring Break**

**Chapter One**

_CraziKari183:  
_Did ya remember a razor?

_ShrnkngVlt:  
_No, also forgot my swimsuit…

_ShrnkngVlt:  
_Kari, of course, I remembered my razor, but thanks for checking MOM. We're going to Mexico, how could I NOT remember my razor?

_CraziKari183:  
_I'm just checking.

_CraziKari183:  
_Shit!

_ShrnkngVlt:  
_What?

_CraziKari183:  
_I forgot to call a taxi. Damnit.

_ShrnkngVlt:  
_Call one?

_ShrnkngVlt:  
_Just flag one. That's what I do.

_CraziKari183:  
_I guess. I dunno, they just really intimidate me, and I always thought that calling a company was more legit, ya know? And I'm not a very good whistler

_ShrnkngVlt:  
_KARI, how can you be bad at whistling? At least you can whistle.

_CraziKari183:  
_Wat, like you can't?

_ShrnkngVlt:  
_No I can't whistle. You know that.

_CraziKari183:  
_Ok, I'm gonna go try to do this. Cu soon.

_ShrnkngVlt:  
_Bye.

Violet signed off and started the shut down on her computer. Yes, she knew instant messaging wasn't exactly what one should be doing at one's workplace, but it was the Friday before spring break, and _one _didn't really care at this point.

She turned to the final two pieces of paper lying on her spotless desk. At NSA most of the younger staff, anyone still in college or their last years of high school, had filing partners, someone who would look over the other's Rescue Reports—R&Rs as they called them—for anything out of the ordinary. Since the reinstatement of super's rights, the government had gotten very restrictive, especially in the area of underaged superhero work. This was the NSA way of getting around those governmental concerns: extra paperwork.

However, said paper trail could provide stunning insight into who needed a bit more time in the training rooms… or in ethics class.

The first file was for her usual partner, Crystaline, a younger super, senior in high school, but everything looked fine. Maybe a little flashy, but what eighteen year old, gorgeous blond, with _super powers_ wouldn't make things a bit of a production from time to time, and though Violet usually had her personal prejudices against those types of shenanigans, it was Friday for Christ's sake. She signed at the bottom line and stamped it_ approved_.

The second file was for Thunderpunch, who in Vi's (and everyone else's) opinion was a dunderhead, to put it in office-appropriate terminology. Violet had volunteered to check his files after his previous partner went under review of the Integrity Board. One look at the file and Vi couldn't help but shake her head. There was nothing terribly off, but there were way too many loose ends. However, Vi had a plane to catch, and thus stamped it, but left a few comments and concerns—after erasing her original sarcastic, "The villain pleaded for fifteen minutes, really, Dunderpunch?"

As she walked to the outbox tray, she could just hear what Rick would have said to that last little comment, _"Why'd you offer to help if you weren't actually going to do something constructive. We all know you're witty, kid, but we need to know what to do about Dunder…" _

Of course, it was just one little file, nothing Integrity Board worthy. Plus, she'd found in her six years of super work that the agency had a soft spot for the Incredibles, even though she had hung up her family uniform years ago and was a full-fledged super heroine in her own right, to everyone at NSA, she would always be an Incredible.

She slipped the paper in the slot, with an extra flourish. Just three hours till she'd be gone from the dreary, rainy city and well on her way to Mexico. She turned on her heels, about to head back to her office for her purse, when a voice stopped her—

"Is Vi still here?"

_Shit. It was Rick Dicker. _

"Uh, yeah, she was at her cubicle, last I saw her. I think everyone's gone home. I was just about to head off. It's spring break next week, you know." The voice belonged to yet another young, trip-bound super.

"You do that, and enjoy the break, son." She could just hear Rick patting him on the shoulder, wishing him well… before coming to ruin her life.

… Or at least week.

She knew his tone. She knew what it meant: an assignment. Not this week, though. This week was Violet's spring break, and she'd be damned if she spent it on duty and in anything but a bikini… and sober, for that matter.

She hurried back to her cubicle. She had to get out and fast. She flipped the off switch on the monitor and grabbed her purse and jacket from the mini, built-in closet, but heard those long, heavy, old steps. Not enough time to make a run for it.

She looked around, and a thought came to her. No, too ridiculous, but those steps were getting closer. She shook her head, tossing her purse back in the closet, fazed out, and ducked under her desk—yes, immature and unprofessional, but it was _spring break_.

Rick came around the corner, or at least his legs did. The legs paused a moment; Violet deadly silent. He came closer to the desk and paused.

He stepped back, and Violet heard his chalky laughter. "Alright, Violet," he said.

She sighed, "Hello, Rick." She stood up, fazing in.

"The screen was still warm." He leaned against her desk, but mid-lean stopped abruptly. "Oh, I grabbed your mail." He extended a hand, but she waved him off.

"Just set it on the desk."

Rick shook his head, a laugh on his lips, but did as she said. "Vi-"

"It's _spring break_."

Raising a finger and an eyebrow he continued, "I didn't say I blamed you." He leaned against her desk, a folder now evidently sitting in his lap. "But it's an emergency, and only you can handle it."

Violet reached out a hand. "The tickets aren't refundable. I'm sending in my receipt."

He passed her the file, with a smirk. "NSA intelligence has recently uncovered evidence that a previously assumed dead villain may still be up and around."

She opened the file to show a spacious house, coastal. Behind that page was a map, British Columbia, Canada, near the border. She sighed again, "International?"

Rick nodded, "Now you can see why we needed someone trustworthy, but-"

"But not too famous, in case of trouble?" She set the file down, cocking her head to the side, snidely. Having shed her Incredibles persona years ago, in exchange for a new moniker and costume, Violet had gained a bit more anonymity.

"As I was saying, someone who's good at not being seen."

"Well, I _am _Invisigirl."

The old man scratched his head. "Violet, there's a difference in being invisible, and not being seen." Rick straightened up, "And besides, you being a lesser known hero isn't the only reason I chose you, kiddo."

Violet looked up, "Who is this guy?" Rick didn't answer, just watched her. There was only a handful of previously assumed dead—dangerous, high level security—that she knew…

The answer was obvious, after just a moment, "Syndrome."

"Bingo." Violet picked the file back up, as Rick continued, "One of our U.N. guys has picked up on a lot of American-Swiss account transactions, under the name Lionel Pine. Really strange activity levels. With a bit of trouble, we tracked it to Canada, and with even more trouble to this address." She flipped a few more pages, most containing staff notes, the paper-trail print outs, and at the end, one very blurry, ambiguous photograph.

"But there's no list of recent activity?" She looked up.

Rick was starring back, "and now you know why I'm coming to you."

But she didn't. "No, not really." He just stared, waiting to see how long it took her to figure it out on her own. This was one of Rick's more recent attributes. Violet always rolled her eyes at his professor-like tendencies. Always the mentor. "Ok… if he's not doing anything now… and keeping a low profile… you think…"

_Click_.

"He's planning something big."

Rick clicked his teeth—a trait of Midwestern origin that, frankly, Violet didn't love. "You got it."

"And you haven't told my parents why? Because dad would blow a fuse?"

"Because, kid, your parents are maybe just a little too old for this one."

She wanted to smile, but her lips held a grim line. He'd said a mouthful, and he'd been the only one brave enough to say what more than one person had been thinking of late. "Rick, what all does this assignment include?"

"Besides missing out on a tan?" He laughed a little at his own joke, before continuing, "Well, intelligence can only shed so much light on a case. Luckily for you, this all could turn out to be just a case of mistaken identity, but whoever this guy is, he runs a pretty tight ship for a civilian. He rarely leaves the place," gesturing to the photo of beach front property that Vi was holding, "which has the best security system, excluding the pentagon that we've ever come across. His phone lines, when not collecting dust, have our tech guys typing and decoding their fingers to the bone—and don't even get me started on his computer network."

"Yeah, that sounds like Syndrome," she sighed, wanting to check her watch, but knowing it was pointless. "So if both the intelligence and tech branches can't nab this guy, then what do you expect little old me to do?"

"Well, Invisigirl, I expect you to do what you do so well."

"Be invisible?"

"Not be seen."

Vi thought for a moment. It was his mentor-tone. Rick was trying to say something—something more complicated than just figuring out an assignment-puzzle. "I've heard that there's a big difference between the two."

"Oh, there is, and you'll see it too, in your own time, I think," he said, nodding. "And that, my dear, is why I chose you." He motioned to the cubby, "and now get your things, we'll talk as we go."

Vi rolled her eyes, but did as she was told, but not before taking out her ticket, ripping it to pieces, and throwing it into her trash bin. She then grabbed her things and headed to the parking garage, following the now, surprisingly fast steps of the older man. "First and foremost, we need to know who and what we're up against—if anything. We need to know who this cowboy is before we know what he's up to."

"Identity before heinous plot. Got it."

Rick gave her a look. "Focus kid. Though his activity is sporadic at best, we think he'll be resurfacing soon."

"And why is that?"

Rick smirked, and Violet knew she was in for it. "The west coast is getting the storm of the century, and not even Pine could have foreseen this one. He'll have to water proof the house, not to mention what his plans could be for the boat."

"Boat?"

"He's ocean front, as you saw, and has his own dock."

Vi stopped, "and you couldn't get surveillance from the water?"

"Believe me, we tried. All we got were the few shots of the house and that one blurry excuse for a photo. You know how international agencies have been riding us lately with foreign-super interference."

"And you think I'll curry favor in the north?"

"I'm hoping you won't have to."

Violet smiled, despite her best effort to be upset. "So any more suggestions?" she asked, as they came up on her car.

"How about 'have fun?'"

"Too soon for jokes, Rick." She unlocked and opened the door, when he stopped her. "I picked you because you're attached. You know what it would mean for your family, for you, if Syndrome's still alive."

She nodded, "Yeah, I do." She was just about to shut the door, when he took hold. "One last thing," he handed her what looked like a wristwatch.

She stared at the odd accessory, "Rick?"

"Edna's newest gizmo. It hasn't been fully tested, but I think it's pretty trustworthy."

"You think?!"

He didn't address her concern. "I programmed in the location in question." He pressed a switch on the side. "See, it'll show you in purple—"

"How original—"

"and the location in blue. Best, it'll phase with you, just like your suit."

"No magically levitating watch then?"

Again, he ignored her attempts at being difficult. "Violet," he said the words slow, looking right into her eyes, "be careful. I know you're the girl for this job, but I can't shake the feeling that—"

"That you're ruining my week?" Whatever he was going to say, she just couldn't let him get the words out. Maybe that same _feeling_ of Rick's, was keeping her difficult and light-hearted now. "I'll be fine. Invisible, unseen, and fine, and whatever else that entails."

He nodded, not looking entirely convinced, but shut her door and watched her drive away, his gray eyes not leaving her rearview until she turned out of the parking structure and into the rainy day.

* * *

On the way to her apartment to repack—her entire bikini collection and a plethora of tank tops and shorts wouldn't be exactly climate-appropriate now—she'd called her friends, fully prepared to break their hearts with the news, but found that none of them recollected her being a part of their little jaunt to begin with. Leave it to Rick to cover all her tracks.

She was just about to exit off the highway when the phone rang. "Rick?"

"No Vi, sweetie, it's me. I'm so glad I caught you."

"Mom?" she repositioned the phone in the crook of her neck, both hands on the wheel as the rain picked up.

"Thank goodness I got a hold of you. It's an emergency. Can you pick up Dash from school? The game was cancelled and there's just no way I can get there in time. Your father's on rounds and most of the other parents already got their boys before Dash even got around to calling me, which is so like him—"

"Sure, it's fine."

Helen plowed ahead, "Jack just can't shake this cold, and this was the only time the doctor could get him in, and gosh, I'm just so glad I caught you. Thank you so much honey, and you remember how to get there—"

"Yes, mom, I remember how to get to my own high school."

"I won't be out long. Oh, I just missed the exit. I have to go, love you. Bye!"

Vi shook her head. Parents.

She hadn't been to her old school much this past year. From time to time, she tried to make to a few of Dash's football games, track meets, basketball games, swim meets…

The current sport of choice was soccer, and of course he was still easily the best, but usually tried to rein it in to about the second or third spot. He did everything, and for Dash, it was still never enough—their mother, on the other hand, was beginning to notice that the house calendar on the refrigerator had little room to spare for any additional athletic endeavors.

When Violet pulled up, she was struck, not by how her school had changed, but by the changes in her brother.

He was standing on the grass a little way from the field, breathing heavy, turned away from her, a warm heat leaving him and floating up into the air. He wore no rain coat only his soccer uniform.

Recently something had been very different with Dashiell Parr, and though Violet felt it somehow, she couldn't grasp and hold on to it. If she had to list the changes, it would have been impossible, but rather she was simply struck with his _otherness_. She'd missed too much, too many games, too many Sunday dinners, too many everythings that filled the calendar on the refrigerator.

Dash was staring up, in what seemed to be thoughtfulness, in the pouring rain. He looked so much like their dad, and yet so much like their mom too. He was getting bigger, he wasn't that lanky kid at Christmas who would hardly take a break from Call of Duty to give her a hug or say hello with more than a grunt. Though, he would never be as big as their father, more of their mom's sleek, aerodynamic build. And he was tall, like her, Violet was always forgetting that their mom was tall for a woman. Maybe because they were used to writing off her height to her powers, all that constant stretching.

Dash was intellectual too. Their dad wasn't like that, and maybe when he got older, he'd be more of a sage, like Rick, but not just yet. And Dash was more like deliberate Helen.

Violet watched him thinking and breathing heavy, and then he ran up the tree.

Vi blinked a couple times, as Dash hopped down, grinning ear to ear, obviously proud of himself and this new trick. She shook her head, rolling down the window, "You going to stand there all day?"

Dash's smile fell flat. Grabbing his duffel bag, he walked to her car, "I wanted to run home."

"Remember the last time you ran home in the rain? You got pneumonia, and then couldn't run at all. For months."

He rolled his eyes, and Violet couldn't seem to stop wondering what it was that held her attention. He looked down at her, "What?"

"You look… older."

"Yeah, well you look just as ugly as ever."

… And there was the kid she'd grown up with and fought with every day. So nothing had changed. It was a relief almost.

Vi reached across her relatively ancient car to unlocked the passenger seat. "Get in, you menace."

* * *

Violet had taken her usual place at the kitchen table, mug of hot tea in her hands. She was rummaging through the newspaper, taking a break from staring down at her watch—though if she missed her flight now it was no sweat off her back. Helen still wasn't home yet.

"What's up with you?" Dash came around the corner, "Got a date or something."

"Better. A mission," she said, rolling her eyes.

Her brother chuckled, though he was taking more interest in the contents of the refrigerator. "What's the job?"

Vi froze. As stupid as it sounded, she hadn't actually considered this situation. In that split second she decided it would be best to keep her brother in the dark on this one. "Oh…" she waved it off with her hand, "just some wild goose chase Dicker is sending me on."

She was looking at the newspaper, but Dash was looking at her. The open refrigerator hummed in the background.

"You window shopping over there? I can feel the cold all the way over here."

Dash grabbed a carton of milk, closing the door. He went to lean against the counter, scratching at the cardboard. "Hey Violet."

"Yup," she said, still focusing on newspaper article—something about a possible Super legislature, something more constraining she was sure, but when Dash didn't continue she turned to look at him. "Dash? What's… up?"

"I was just wondering…" He was still picking at the carton with his thumb nail. "Why do you do hero work?"

"_What?_"

"Never mind." He opened the carton with lightning speed. "Forget I asked it."

"Dash—"

"No, forget it," he turned to face the countertop.

"No, it's ok. It's just," she paused, crinkling her eyebrows, "It's just that wasn't exactly what I had been expecting." She chuckled in a strained and dry way. "I thought this was going to be about girls, or something."

Dash didn't chuckle.

In the silence, Violet realized how stupid she'd been to not have seen this coming. It explained it, really. For a superhero, Vi felt rather dull and obtuse not to have known. His birthday was coming, and with it would come the transition from having to do superhero work under parental, or at the very least guardian supervision and guidance to the freedom to do hero work alone. He would be a hero in his own name, without their parents. Yet another piece of legislature making it harder on those who already had quite a burden. "The big one-seven coming your way?" He didn't answer, but she didn't really need one. "You were going to ask me this that day you called, weren't you?" She'd had received a missed call, out of the blue, a few weeks back. When she'd called him back, though, he'd waved it off as for no reason. "It's ok, to be nervous, you know."

He shrugged. "I'm not scared."

"I know that. You're one of the bravest here in town, but we all have moments where we doubt oursel—"

He turned. "That's not it. I just wonder why we do this. Why do _you_ do this?"

"Why _I_ do this?"

"Yeah."

"Well," she looked to the ceiling; her reply wasn't there. "It's who I am. I mean, the powers I have, _we_ have, it's just who we are." She looked to her brother. He didn't nod.

"But don't you… I mean, do you ever think there should be another reason, not just our powers?" His exasperation showed in his voice. Her brother had truly wrestled with the question, and though the bell had rung and it was currently between rounds, Vi knew the fight was still going strong.

But to answer his question, that was something else entirely. "Well, I—"

"_Violet!_" The pudgy nine year old raced across the linoleum, wet shoes squeaking and gave his older sister a messy hug.

"Jackson Parr if you don't change out of those wet clothes…"

Before Helen could finish, Jack was off, slipping through the wall, clothes left in his wake. The mother put a hand to her shaking head. "What am I going to do with him?" Then she turned to the now semi-drenched daughter. "And you, Violet, have a plane to catch."

Vi forced out a smile. "Yes I do."

"I'm sorry about your spring break sweetie," she put a warm hand on Vi's cheek. "There's always next year."

Vi scoffed lightly. "Yeah. I know." She stood, grabbing her purse, as Helen ran off to ensure Jack was in dry clothes and resting. "Dash," she sighed, walking to the door. "We'll talk when I get back, okay?"

He nodded, to which she added a single nod of her own, and then she was out in the rain.

* * *

The plane ride had been tedious.

Or rather… unbearable.

Vi had been out of the country many times, usually on cases similar—though not nearly as difficult or serious—to this one. In recent years, Rick had made her his go-to girl, for espionage and the sort, and, somehow, Vi had come out on top. She excelled in that line of work. Level of Inspector, they called it The success came as a surprise, though, maybe it shouldn't have, but as Vi often said to herself, it was something to keep her busy between classes—a hobby, if you would.

However, she'd never been to Canada.

One very long summer ago she'd gone with Edna to France, and become decent enough in basic French (A summer full of wine and ridiculously suave boys… and Edna's laughter in the headache-filled mornings. Violet had always wondered what exactly that summer had meant, besides more in the way of experience and one _very_ bad haircut). From then on, she'd played off stereotypes of smoking and black clothing, the occasional beret; it worked pretty well, especially for these types of international incidents. It wasn't _that_ difficult, this job of hers. Dicker had started calling her a bit cocky, and she was. She knew it; she didn't care. She was young and on top. She felt the recklessness boiling beneath the surface of her skin, the way it always did during a mission, and she kept on going, riding with it.

The flight hadn't been very full. Actually there had been hardly enough people to fill the seats. Though, when she'd exited there were more than enough people waiting to get on the departing plane. In fact, all over the airport, the traffic was going in the opposite direction.

Cabs were scarce, but finally she flagged one down and directed him to her hotel in French. The ride was short, and she was tired, but she forced herself to stay awake and take in whatever information she could. Time was of the essence. Maybe, just maybe, if she could clear this up, by the end of the week she'd be on a beach, in Mexico. Wishful thinking, she knew, but Vi held onto it anyway.

She learned that Rick was right, this storm was going to be—or at least everyone thought—quite the occasion, and the city was nearly vacant. Yes, if Syndrome was going to make an appearance, it would be now.

Less people wouldn't exactly help Violet, with blending in, she thought to herself, as she turned off the lamp, lying down to go to sleep.

* * *

Early the next morning Violet headed for the docks, about a mile and a half from Pine's place, or possible place. She shook her head as she walked the streets in warm daylight. If a storm was coming, you certainly couldn't tell it from the weather today.

Her plan was simple, almost too simple to even deserve the name plan. She just wanted to check out the area, talk to some locals, and get the feel for the nearby streets. She'd memorized the map well enough, but it was a different thing between aerial view and actually not getting cornered in a tight situation—that had been one of those "learned it the hard way" lessons. She wondered if there was anywhere she could rent a bike.

Also, she thought that the docks could give her a view of his house. Surely it was his, upon closer inspection of the documents. She deduced that it had to be him. No one else could be that good. The house remained unchanged, a smattering of graffiti on the monument of time. The lawn never needed to be mown, the house repainted, nor the deck stained. His neighbors were far enough away to never hear anything, and the house's gate system looked pretty formidable, in the paper, two dimensional format, Violet shuddered to think of the fear it would strike if seen, in person.

_Fear_…

One only feared when one had something to hide, and speaking as a former "one," Violet had always been prone to fear, fear of being seen. Fear of being found out. She knew, whoever lived in that house, sure as hell, was hiding something. Something that they feared being discovered.

She came upon the docks around ten, she guesstimated—Vi's newest accessory only masqueraded as a watch, lacking any real time-keeping abilities. It was well past early morning, but not yet lunch time. The docks should have been bustling. They were nearly deserted. However, the beach was beautiful… which put Violet into a worse mood, on principle.

Well, she _was_ at the beach, just not in the context previously planned. She began commencing step one: talking to the locals.

… which proved significantly more difficult than she had assumed. It was a ghost town, albeit a much sunnier one. Almost no one was around and those that were certainly didn't have time, while buying their supplies and making last minute preparations to ride out the storm, to make small talk with Violet, which was exactly what she had to do. She couldn't exactly come out and ask if a mass murderer thought dead had taken up super secret residence down the street. She gave up and stomped into a grocery store. She bought a diet coke and went to sit on one of the many docks.

It was beautiful. Even if the man was crazy, he had taste. Nomanisan had been gorgeous. The idea of an island just resonated with Violet. The picturesque villain, no matter how overdone or dramatized, the villains were almost inevitably loners—no more than islands themselves.

Of course, the place had also nearly been a death-trap, literally—

"Now what's a tourist doing here today?"

Violet jumped, nearly dropping her coke. Damn, she hadn't been paying attention (her mother once and often said, in school, daydreams get you detention, for a super, they get you killed).

A large man, mid fifties, balding and in waders stood, beer in hand. Vi brought a hand up to shade her eyes, "What are you doing drinking at this time of day?"

The man broke into a wide grin—he had all his teeth, or good fakes, but she was relatively sure they were real. "Not bad, kid, not bad." He extended a rather meaty hand, down to Violet. "How's about this: I get you one too, then it's only half as bad." He winked, and Vi, as inwardly hesitant as always, took the hand, standing up with a smirk. He led her back down the docks, past the grocery store, where she'd purchased the coke. The place was as deserted as before, and the man didn't seem to have a care in the world or about it at all—Violet fought back the will to like his style.

They stopped in front of a dilapidated building. The sign that graced the entrance said "boat tours," as well as the times of operation, and a name: Sam Watson. The large man—Sam, apparently—held the door for her. She walked through, eyeing him, "Merci, Sam." When he didn't answer, she added a snide, "not French then, I take it?"

He chuckled, entering himself, hands in his pockets. "Grâce à vous, mon cher." He took a final sip from the beer can, before tossing it into the trash can to Violet's left—a perfect shot. "Not a drop of French blood in me, that I know of, that is." He walked around—almost pace-like, Violet noticed—to finally stop, leaning against his desk. "Now, you know my name, it would only be polite if you could return the favor…"

"I'm not sure we know each other quite well enough for that just yet," Violet quipped. She looked around assessing the building. It was filled with boating and fishing equipment, and a large collection of scuba gear in one corner. All of it very, _very_ dirty. This was a shack, if Violet had ever seen one.

"In that case can I offer you a beer, or," he shrugged, looking down, but slowly bringing his eyes up to meet her own. "Better yet, a boat tour?"

"Oh, but you see, I'm just a poor college student. I don't know if that's in my budget." On second thought, however, Violet smirked, "I will take you up on the beer, though."

He grinned, chuckling, and tossed her a beer, "Too early my ass." He fell into his desk chair, that didn't look up to the task of holding his weight, putting his hands behind his head, propping up his feet, "Well, how's about this, seeing as no one in their right mind would come up here this week, besides you that is, let's just put the tour on the house."

Violet tapped her chin, trying for nonchalant, achieving something akin to impish—she just couldn't help but like him, even if he did put her super-senses on mid-to-high alert. "Throw in the beer and you've got a deal."

He made his hand into a gun, pulling the trigger, "Done."

"Now that was just creepy."

He laughed, standing up and clapping his hands. "Alright, let's get a move on. What're you looking to see?"

"How about everything."


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.

A/N: Bear with me on the logistics of the sport Vi participates in, I have a reason for inconsistencies. Oh and Violet's medical symptoms. I'm sure there are inconsistencies, however, I have been around someone with the condition, and I think it's a decent depiction.

… p.s. this will all make sense once you've read the chapter.

Oh and happy new year.

**Chapter Two**

The air was cold and perfect and held some sort of promise, the kind of promise that reminded Violet of those humid, pregnant afternoons before thunderstorms. However, this day was bringing something so different, and not even a cloud in the sky was there to betray it.

"So, how you liking it?"

As with Sam, Violet didn't want to admit to liking the place. _I wish I was in Mexico. I wish I was in Mexico… _her mantra was fading fast. "It's something."

He gave her a knowing, sidelong glace, "Yeah, well, what else do you want to see? We've seen some islands, the docks, the wide, ocean blue. What else?"

Violet smirked. "I don't live here. Like _I _know where to go."

Sam shook his head. "You're something, missy."

Violet sighed. _Let's get to work_. "Well," total nonchalance oozing out of her words and body language, at least she hoped so. "Could we just drive along the coast for a while?"

"Atta girl," he said, pulling the boat about.

She watched him as he drove, with quiet contemplation. He was strange and not just back-woods strange. She had reason to fear, but she held that back—with little effort. She liked him, and she didn't think he had anything up his sleeve, besides being the strange, older man he was. Of course that notion had to be categorized with her mother's idea of daydreaming, for everyone else it was fine, but for a super to ignore their senses…

Violet turned her eyes to the blue.

The houses varied, some in the expected Victorian style, with flowing balconies, the affluent and beautiful, a few houses, the brain children of the sixties, bright colors, polka dots and the psychedelic, and others were modern.

His was modern.

It was very large, but not large enough to draw too much attention. Modern enough to be ignored, and the boat, just right for a quick get away. The green, green grass fading perfectly into the fine, white sand.

They'd passed it before she'd hardly seen it.

They flew in the mist for twenty more minutes. Violet took it all in, the feel and the smell, but Sam cut her daydreams—she had to stop doing that—short. "I didn't know I'd signed up to take you on a free cruise to Mexico."

She jumped at his words. He'd come so close to the mark without actually knowing it. Vi forced herself to relax. "Just getting my money's worth, Sammy."

Sam smirked, "You're cute missy, I'll give you that." He turned the boat around with an easy manner that matched his lifestyle. Violet watched him. He was like Rick's little bits of wisdom, she couldn't quite figure them out by face value. She knew there was more than met the eye, but seeing it, well that was more difficult.

Violet twiddled her thumbs, as Sam pulled the boat into the dock. He hopped out—relatively spry for his age, thought Vi—and tied up the boat. Then, throwing his cigarette butt into the waters, he reached out a hand toward her. She took it, too stunned by the unlikely chivalry to react differently. "I have pretty good balance, just so you know."

"Well then, how's about you get the door for me, when we get back to my office," he walked forward, taking a quick peak behind, his back slightly hunched, in that old-man sort of way. He looked so harmless—_looked_ being the operative word.

"Your office? Well, now I know what that gallantry was all about." She chuckled at her own joke, still on alert, however.

Sam scoffed, hands in his pockets, but said no more. They walked in silence, until they were back to the tackle store front. He stopped walking in front of the main door. "Well, I'm waiting."

She couldn't disguise her questioning eyes as she passed in front and opened the door for him, following after. Once back in the office, he leaned back against his desk. Violet took the moment to assess him. Her eyes stopped at his shirt pocket. "Care to put a cigarette on my tab?"

He grabbed the pack from his pocket, pulling one cigarette out and extending the pack. She took the cigarette, but couldn't shake the feeling of two predators, pacing the grounds, taking stock of one another. "The light too?"

"How about this: I give you the light for your name?" He asked, pulling out a cigarette for himself.

Violet answered with a smirk, "Christine."

"Ah, well isn't that just perfect for your little Miss Frenchy act." Violet's face remained unmoved, as her stomach did a back flip. His eyes never left her face. The air held, as did the predators.

He chuckled shaking his head, the moment broken. "Oh, I was a young'in once."

"Once, hell, you're still young."

"Now I know you're pullin' my leg."

Vi made her move, "all that Midwestern charm, you can hardly blame a girl."

He looked up at her, his hands still cupped around the lighter and cigarette, posed to connect. After a moment, he'd gone back to lighting his own smoke, then tossed the lighter to Violet. "You're sharp, but I ain't been a Midwest boy for a couple of decades now. I'm strictly Canadian, and lovin' every minute of it too."

After she'd lit up, Violet took to walking the room, taking in the well worn gear, "With days like today, I envy you there."

"Speaking of weather, you staying here through this mess we're about to have?" he asked.

She picked up a scuba mask. "Well my flight was cancelled, so it's looking that way."

"That didn't stop the rest of the city, but that's your lot." He flicked his nose, sniffling.

Violet could only imagine the collection of handkerchiefs he had for such occasions. "When is this storm supposed to make its big entrance anyway?"

"The TV is saying late morning the day after next, but I'm thinking we have till that evening."

"This is my first big storm. Any tips from a veteran like yourself?"

"Veteran," he scoffed, shaking his head. "Well, heck, just make sure they board up the windows wherever you're staying."

Vi kneeled down to take a closer look at the oxygen tanks. She flicked one of the gages, "This stuff as flammable as they say?"

He rushed over, "Yes, and goddamnit don't get that close when you're smoking."

She stood trying to look meek. She'd ruined any chance at a good cover already, but meek she could do on short notice. She had had plenty of experience in that department. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry."

He stood, after moving the tank backwards. "Mhm, well I have to get down to the lumber house, but it was nice meeting you, _Christine_." He smiled his knowing smile at her.

What he knew however, was lost to Violet. She handed him back his lighter, smiling, "Same."

"Stop by after the storm?"

"We'll see," she called as she exited the shop.

* * *

It was dark as Violet left her hotel room—by back alley, no need to alert the front desk clerk she was leaving, luckily they'd yet to board up the doors, though they'd done all the external windows. At the last minute she had decided against her super suit. Instead she'd opted for a black, long sleeved shirt and cutoffs, which Edna had fitted with the ability to disappear. It was loose and flexible and, of course, had the ability to disappear, and her new wristwatch finished off the ensemble.

Edna was the greatest. It had been a tough decision, and it wasn't that Violet didn't think she would need her suit, but rather that she wouldn't want to leave it someplace unsecure if need be.

And where she was going was very unsecure: the ocean.

Vi had been to the ocean a number of times, on vacation with family, or with friends, even after a mission, and of course the beaches in France, nude and otherwise, but she had never done any intense ocean swimming before tonight. Needless to say she was nervous. She trekked soundlessly through the streets, unseen and unheard. She made her way to the docks and up to Sam Watson's storefront.

The plan was genius, if she did say so herself. It had come to her in the shop, earlier that day. Without drawing attention to herself, how was she supposed to get into Syndrome's impenetrable lair of doom and destruction? Scuba diving, of course.

As for getting to the equipment, Violet sincerely hoped that Sam hadn't boarded up the place yet, and as the shop finally came into view, low and behold, she was in luck. Two windows had been boarded, another half done. The door was untouched.

She picked the old lock with little actual work, reaching back to Reconnaissance 101. Once inside, she tiptoed to his office, the boards creaking ever so slightly beneath her. She listened for any sings of life and happily heard none. She opened the door and entered the office, going straight for the gear. She'd never actually been scuba diving before, but had googled it, which counted for just as much in experience, right?

At least Violet though so.

She grabbed what she was relatively sure was a dry suit, the fullest can of air, as far as she could tell, weights, flippers, gloves, a flashlight, and a mask, along with the odds and ends that hung off of her array of gear. It was all together damn heavy, and Violet had no idea how to get it all to the beach, besides dragging it there. The streetlights were sporadic at best, but still, she could just feel Rick Dicker cringing as he read her Rescue Report—if she got that far.

She sighed, pulling the gas tank on as the back straps allowed. She heaved the weight belt over one should and gathered up everything else in her arms. She took one wobbly step and closed her eyes, mustering her inner calm.

O_h my god. I'm going to fall over. I'll be stuck and then Sam will find me tomorrow morning, right here…_

Violet took a deep breath and steadied herself. This was the only way, or at least the only way she could think up, to make it undetected into the house. She exited and locked the door behind her, thinking about all the times her parents and fellow supers had asked her to join them at the gym, and how she had declined almost every time. She trudged, trying to stay in the shadows, wondering if Syndrome was watching her struggle—that would be so like the smug bastard. She didn't bother going invisible. It was a moot point. The only thing worse than an odd, weakling thief, was a bundle of levitating scuba gear.

After an eternity or two, Violet made it to the beach. She dropped her bundle without ceremony, ducking under the welcoming shadow of the dock. She plopped down into the sand, to take a breather.

She wondered what her friends were doing. Even with the time change, she was sure her friends weren't at the beach themselves. More than likely they were in bed, sleeping off the previous night, and would be for some time to come.

Vi grumbled, slipping off her shoes. She knew what she had to do, and she didn't like it one little bit.

She could tell by looking that there was no room for a long sleeved shirt and cutoffs in the suit. She grumbled as she slipped out of both, tossing them in a nearby dumpster, and grabbed the suit.

Putting it on, however, was one of the most difficult and demeaning tasks of her life and made carrying the junk to the beach look like a walk in a rose garden, but she finally got the suit on and zipped. It fit closer than her skin _and_ closer than her super suit, which was saying a lot—she didn't remember the internet mentioning anything about a dry suit being so tight.

After catching her breath, she had managed to get the rest of her ensemble on, only pausing as she snapped on the weights, which had a morbid feel to them, like she was putting stones in her pockets and walking out to sea. She shook her head and practiced breathing—not the most comfortable of feelings, but she could manage. This was one experience she wasn't looking forward to, but it had to happen. She couldn't very well return all the gear and slink back to her hotel room now, could she?

Violet started the walk. It was awkward and strange. And the water—

_Was fucking freezing!_

Maybe this wasn't such a good plan. However, there was no turning back. She was like her father in that, headstrong to a fault, which was what Violet's better half was groaning as she walked—well scuba-ed—further into the water.

And suddenly for all her walking, she couldn't keep her head up any longer and she had to go under or back. She had to trust a cylinder of air to her keep her weighted body alive. She was cold and she was scared, but she certainly wasn't going to swallow her pride, tail between her legs and go back now. She forced herself to breathe easy and went under, flipping on her flashlight.

_There, not so bad at all… if you ignore the numb appendages and the heavy current, not to mention the storm could come early and then I'm really screwed… _

She swam, Edna's watch as her guide.

Again her thoughts wandered to all those missed opportunities she'd been given to work out, with her parents, Crystaline, even college friends. She'd turned them all down, and now she was regretting it. She also regretted that they didn't really cover this in the training rooms. Yeah, they'd taught her how to operate a stick shift (sort of) and how to hot wire a car, but no, nothing on scuba diving at low temperatures and then swimming extremely long distances, she must've been sick that day.

That and smoking. Yeah, she really regretted that too. Breathing heavy when combined with an air tank did not a good combination make.

Same went for sweating and scuba suits.

After what seemed a god-awful long time—though she had no idea the actual amount, due to the timepiece's lack of time-telling ability—and despite being water-winded and cold and all-around really uncomfortable, Vi managed to align her purple blinking light with the watch's blue light for the lair in question. Now came the tricky part, which she had known was coming, but hadn't really wanted to think about or come to terms with.

As she bobbed up and down in the steady ocean movements—too steady with such a storm approaching, Violet thought—she prepared herself for the next phase in her plan. The scuba suit on loan from Sam didn't go invisible with her. Her clothes were in a dumpster a couple miles back. Violet was no mathematician, but even she could compute where this was going. Somewhere awkward.

True, she had underwear on, which was actually more than most bathing suits (in particular, French bathing suits, or lack thereof), and she knew there was only really one option, but like the rest of this mission, she didn't have to like it. A trend perhaps.

She kicked the flippers and the shoes off of her already cold and wet feet. She slipped off the gloves. The last of the easy part was to pull off her head cover. As she did so, she shivered, knowing now just how cold and how much colder it was going to get from here. She took a breath and centered herself for the next step. She unzipped the suit with a quick move and sucked in the air from her tank due to the shock.

_Cold_. Very _cold._

She swallowed. She tried to slow her breathing.

Violet had basic training in dealing with hypothermia—after that debacle with Icelandia a couple of years ago, she'd decided it was time to learn more about the condition. She knew that she had to do this calmly and quickly and get the hell out of the water _fast_. She couldn't use a shield, it, or rather the air inside of it, would bring her right to the visible surface.

She struggled with stiff, shaky movements to tug off the elastic suit. It was difficult to slip the sleeves through the air tank armholes, but finally it was bunched around her small, bare and blue waist. She quickly unhooked the weight belt and hooked it above the undone suit and moved to struggle to free her legs. The second the suit was off and sliding along the bottom, Violet created a skin-tight forcefield, to maintain what little heat she could. She weighted down the suit as best she could with rocks, hoping it wouldn't give her away. Then she turned and swam as close to the shore as she dared while still visible—and shivering.

She took off the goggles, closing her eyes for only a second, as she readjusted her shield to the change. Then, she inhaled deeply…

_Here goes_

and slipped off the air tank.

She quickly unhooked the weights, phasing out as she did so—

And up she popped. With as little a splash as a girl desperate for air could manage, Vi reached the surface and barely registered the action as she created a forcefield walkway, to prevent footprints in the sand.

She had made it. She had made it to _his _beach. Not to mention there were no alarm bells ringing, as of yet. Vi could hardly believe that haphazardly plan had worked. She walked toward the deck with caution, because wasn't it always that moment of success when a super inevitably tripped a wire or set off a trap—not to mention that most alarms were silent anyway?

She took a moment to look at the place.

It was the house from the photograph, so she hadn't botched that up. However, it was a little anticlimactic. The average, modern beach house was just that: average. Well kept, but nothing spectacular. Which, she thought as she walked up the porch steps, was most likely exactly what that villain was going for.

Violet jumped as the sound of a small splash caught her off guard. Then she realized where it had come from—herself. The water on her body had splashed onto her forcefield walkway. That was a problem.

She created a shield around herself, slowly moving it downward like a scanner, wringing the excess water from her body as it went, it pooled at her feet, where a small bowl-shaped shield caught it. Violet then took the bowl shield and slowly sent it out to drop the water back into the ocean. This new trick—mock levitation, she called it—was something new she'd been working on. By surrounding anything with a shield, or at least underneath most objects, she could carry, or "levitate," them various distances, heavier the object, the shorter the distance. She'd been practicing and now it was paying off. Finally, something uplifting, no pun intended.

Now as she continued her walk to the white-washed porch, only the occasional water droplet fell, and freezing Violet had to hope that they would be discounted as wayward ocean spray. She created a small shield around herself, also a shield bowl to catch the water and prevent her from leaving foot prints.

She continued to approach the wrap-around porch, still as possible, except for her left hand, which was shaking. She wasn't afraid but all the same, it was shaking, just a little. Violet shook it out and continued onward.

She avoided the three steps in the center of the porch in preference for a side set, just off the left corner. She placed her weight carefully, holding her breath that such a well-maintained residence wouldn't have squeaky steps.

She was in luck, they were silent as death, only drenched in a thick and cheery smothering of white paint. It looked relatively fresh, Violet observed as she approached the door. Complete with a screen door, that matched this entire façade perfectly, the door seemed pretty normal, the only part of the house, as far as she could tell, that showed any signs of wear and tear, the paint seeming a bit worn down. The door _looked_ harmless, but so did the polio vaccine right after its invention in1955.

She'd have to observe the rest of the house for a better way inside. She was about to turn, when the door suddenly opened, and there he was—she fought to keep her breath.

Syndrome.

It wasn't a surprise and yet… and yet it was like that first, cold step into the water, it took her breath away, and… and…

Violet shook her head. Her thoughts were coming just a bit slower, the swim had really drained her, and she was sure her pale, translucent skin had a blue-ish hue.

He was in an open oxford—white and clean on his freckled arms and chest—and boxers, bare legged, of course, and he looked as if he had not a care in the world. That was the second thing that came to her cold-muddled mind, his total relaxation. He looked like a southern gentleman surveying his plantation, just as a crop was coming in, as if he owned everything, and was well aware of it, without any doubt that this year's crops were going to be excellent. He had a hand on his waist, taking a swig of coffee from the mug in his left. She blinked and steadied her hand—it was still shaking—taking a silent step back, but as his mouth turned upward, as did his Adam's apple as he swallowed, she couldn't seem to see his right hand scratch his stomach and swiftly pull a hand gun out of his waist band to point straight at her.

Violet froze for only a moment, and then continued her retreat. She was invisible after all. Her muscles were taught, holding the shaking—shaking? She wasn't afraid. Why was she still shaking?—at bay.

He wiped his mouth with the back of the hand holding the mug, afterward setting it on the porch rail. He looked straight at—or rather through—her, "Show yourself."

Another, and then one more step.

"Show yourself, or I'll shoot."

Violet's shield was up before the words had left his mouth.

He chuckled and ran that freckled left hand through his hair. "This little baby cuts through defense shields. It's a new technology. I haven't had the chance to test it extensively, but hey, let's just say I have high hopes."

She stopped moving, or at least everything but that hand. _Was he bluffing_?

"I'll count to three and then, well then I guess we'll see how well it works." He scratched the side of his face, chancing a look to the right. "Okay, 1…" he cocked it, "2—"

"I can't!" Violet yelled impatiently.

"Excuse me?" He asked, surprise and not a little skeptical in tone.

"I can't… I…"

"What?" He put a hand to his ear, gun still trained on her. "Spit it out."

She scowled. "I don't have anything on."

The villain's mouth opened, but he shut it again, no words coming out. Finally, he chuckled, shaking his head. "Well I'll be damned. That wasn't exactly what I was expecting." He shrugged out of his oxford shirt, not pressed of course—who in their right mind had that sort of time, well actually he did, but who the hell did he have to impress? Slowly handing the gun over to his left hand, he tossed the shirt to her, and watched as the invisible hand reached up and caught it, her right hand, to be precise, his mouth smirking.

His hand was steady, as he watched her slip on his shirt. _His white oxford shirt_. He would bet money it was still warm. She buttoned it, top down, little, invisible fingers buttoning each one, moving downwards…

He cleared his throat, "Ok, you ready _now?_"

She sighed heavily, and he could see her breath, white like the shirt, dissolve into the moist ocean air, and there she was, wet and blue and a super.

"Ok, ok. Let's get you inside before you catch a cold or something." He nodded the gun toward the door. She walked stiffly, a hand slipping her dripping hair behind her ear.

He opened the door for her, and she went to enter, but as she passed him the cold metal found her left shoulder blade. She gasped, damn cold.

"Move without me and I'll shoot, I swear to God." He pressed forward with the gun. "The shot won't kill you and it'll keep you under control and out of commission. Also, and this is just for your personal knowledge bank, the shoulder blade is ranked sixth as far as most painful gunshots. So you'll be much more docile afterward, that is if you don't go into shock. I don't advise it."

He waited for a reply, but when none came he pushed her forward into the house. He kept the pistol tight to her left shoulder, (she's right handed after all; he's not an idiot) and reached behind to lock the door with the keypad. It was quite the juxtaposition to the cheap screen door, hardly varnished and smoothed, but rather worn from the constant sand. It only looked cheap, but who would suspect titanium reinforcements behind old chipped paint?

The devil was, after all, always most dangerous when in disguise.

"Wait—"

He scowled turning back around. "I'm sure you have plenty of irritating accusations and inquiries, but let's be honest I have work to do. We'll discuss logistics in the morning."

Violet blinked a couple time. "But—wait… you're…"

As she tried to turn to face him, he grabbed her arm, but pulled back in shock. "Jesus Christ, you let yourself get hypothermia." He put a hand to his head, shaking it. He turned back, typing a few codes into a nearby keypad. "At least now maybe you'll be more cooperative." He pushed her forward toward the staircase.

She stood shaking. "But…"

He rolled his eyes, "Yes, I know you're confused behind that blue skin of yours, but we'll just have to deal with that tomorrow, won't we?" He pressed her up the stairs, but when she stumbled, he grabbed and steadied her.

"Where are, where…"

Rolling his eyes, he grabbed her by the shoulder and continued to walk her up the stairs. Vi pushed back a little, but the voice of fear was quieter now—why had she argued in the first place? Rick had said to investigate, or investigating was what Rick had sent her to do—Rick!

"Rick!" she called out.

"Warming up, I see."

She fought harder, the quiet voice that sounded old and chalky was getting louder now. She struggled against him, pulling away, but he held her tight, driving the gun down. He was right behind her ear when he spoke. "Stop. Stop now." He was calm, but he only had so much

"Rick he'll—Rick will know."

"Yeah, yeah, you'll talk to the old man soon enough."

"What?" In surprise, that surprised even syndrome, she tried to turn her head to look at him, but he took the opportunity to push her forward. They were in a hallway now, she realized—oh yeah, the stairs and the long walk. What had happened? "What did you do?"

"Upped the temperature. Can't have you freezing to death. That would be counterproductive."

Violet paused. "That rules out illegal cryogenics."

He halted for just a second, his steps off-beat. He scoffed, finding his rhythm again.

Violet's mind began to wander. "Where the fuck are you taking me?"

"Improved verbal ability, as well as logical train of thought, but your mental-verbal barrier still seems to be experiencing some impairment—ah, here we are." He forced Violet against the door. Elbow to her back, he punched in a few digits in the keypad and the door slid open.

"Maybe I was too quick in ruling out cryogenics," she muttered into the wall.

"Rather feisty now, when all of ten minutes ago you were delirious and in the very early stages of hypothermia. What a couple of degrees can do." He scoffed.

"Pretty weak when you think about it," Vi mumbled, suppressing her own weakness, as she tried to push back, but he was too quick. "Stop it." He pushed her into the room, the very warm room. "This room will cool down according to your decreased symptoms."

"What?" she asked, turning, to get her first straight on look at him.

He leaned against the doorway, one ankle crossed over the other, a hand in his pocket, and though he was the picture of leisure, his white-knuckled grip on the handgun said otherwise. "Come on. Don't give me that. Don't stand there acting like you're confused and disoriented."

"You're keeping me hostage, that's it then?"

He rolled his eyes. "We'll talk in the morning." He turned, but stopped to add, "When you're more coherent."

Violet, now plenty coherent enough to hear the mocking in his voice, started to walk toward him, to challenge him, but he turned suddenly, gun trained on her again. "Stop that. Go to sleep," he said, in a strong but perfectly calm tone, which to be honest surprised Violet, "we'll talk in the morning." He took a single step backwards, and the door slid shut behind him.


End file.
